


My Spoils of Victory Are You

by blackbird



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbird/pseuds/blackbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sleeps in his bed and cooks in his kitchen and curls up on his couch.</p><p>She’s been waiting for him for days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Spoils of Victory Are You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [americana ficathon](http://sister-wife.livejournal.com/15920.html) and the following prompt: Clint/Darcy, _all my life I've been waiting for a guy with a beat-up red pickup truck._
> 
> Title courtesy of Johnny Cash. All mistakes belong to me.

She’s been waiting for him for days. 

Before that, it was weeks broken up by long phone calls in the dead of night and short bursts of days where they barely left her bedroom, laughing and fucking and talking until Darcy was sure she couldn’t take another round, another story, another second of his body covering hers. They both regret the months they danced around each other, now more than ever.

It’s never good news when agents in kevlar swarm your house at midnight. They gave them an hour to pack, told Jane to bring a heavy jacket, boots, but when Darcy reached for hers, a female agent shook her head. “You’re going to a different location. Comfortable clothes for warm weather.” Dumping t-shirts, jeans, cotton dresses in her duffle, she doesn’t think about what this means, only pulls the black and white strip of photos of them from some stupid carnival they’d gone to in the spring from the edge of her mirror and slides them inside her laptop. Jane cries when they hug on the porch. Darcy can’t. 

They hand her a phone when she’s secured in the SUV. “Miss Lewis,” Coulson’s voice on the line is tight, controlled. “There’s been a situation. We’re sending you to a secure location per Agent Barton’s instructions. We’ll be in touch.” After she gives the phone back, she curls up against the window and counts backward from a thousand until she forces herself to fall asleep, numbness spreading outward from her chest.

The jolt of turning onto a dirt road bounces her awake. The sun is overhead, so she thinks they’ve been driving for at least ten hours. There’s a bottle of water, an apple, and a granola bar in a bag next to her. “Where are we?” she asks, biting into the apple with a sharp crack.

“Texas. ETA is just over an hour,” Agent A, the one riding shotgun, says. 

“Is Jane okay?”

“Dr. Foster has arrived at her location safely.”

“No one’s going to tell me where Agent Barton is, are they?”

The uncomfortable silence is answer enough. “Classified,” Agent B replies from behind the wheel.

“Of course it is,” Darcy replies, staring out at the landscape whizzing by, fingers curled around the arrowhead she wears around her neck.

_”For luck,” he said, slipping it over her head. “I managed to hang onto a few of my arrows from back in the day. Thought you might want one.” Darcy looked down it, the dulled gold still warm from his hand. “I would have just given it to you right from the arrow I pried it out of, but Natasha reminded me about tetanus, so I got it fixed up for you.”_

_”It’s awesome. And it draws the eye right to my best assets,” she joked, angling her chest toward him. She’s never been good with big displays of romance, love, whatever this is._

_Clint shook his head. “Good ones, but not your best,” he says, cupping the back of her head. She leaned in and kissed away whatever else he was going to say._

The house is just off the main road, hidden in the trees. She laughs to herself - of course it’s in the middle of a forest. Where else would a hawk nest, right? It’s what she would say - _will say_ \- to him. There’s a lake too, less than a mile away.

“You’re under orders to stay here until Agent Coulson or Agent Hill says otherwise,” A tells her, handing her a sealed plastic bag with the SHIELD logo stamped on it. “The house is under surveillance, but it’s fully stocked. There’s a secure network inside. Use this phone to call out and only if it's an emergency.”

She rolls her eyes. “Solitary confinement wasn’t really how I planned on spending my summer vacation.” Shouldering her duffle and her laptop bag, she gives them a sketchy salute and walks up the porch steps. There’s a set of keys in the bag that open the front door and she panics a minute when the alarm pad starts beeping. There’s a post it stuck next to it that says _Happy Birthday_ in Clint’s blocky handwriting and when she punches in 080686, it disarms and goes silent. Locking the door behind her, she watches through the front window as the black SUV drives away, kicking up dust in its wake.

*

_”Tell me something I don’t know,” she asked one night. It was the dead of winter and there was a blizzard warning in Santa Fe. Jane was gone and they had the house to themselves. Clint had showed up that morning, bag in one hand and his bow case in the other. They went to straight to bed right then even though Darcy had barely been up for an hour. His mouth tasted like sand and copper and hers tasted like black coffee. Her thighs were sore and Clint had raised red marks from where she had dragged her nails over his shoulder too hard. She mouthed at them, draping herself half over his back. He turned his head to look at her and smiled._

_“I used to think I wanted to be a country singer,” he confessed. “When I was younger, I swiped a guitar from the guy that used to run the games. Nights I wasn’t doing my act, I’d busk on the grounds, take requests, that sort of thing. It was fun. Got me laid a lot too.” His smile shifted toward a leer and she laughed._

_“You are good with your hands,” she conceded. “And girls love a dude with a guitar. I’ve slept with a couple myself. So, instead of heading to Nashville...”_

_Clint’s eyes went dark for a second. “I joined the Army instead. I couldn’t afford pipe dreams anymore.” There were things he didn’t talk about, shit that fueled the nightmares that left him shaking and sweating and hoarse from screaming. Darcy knew better than to press him._

_“You should play for me then sometime, Johnny Cash.” She nudged him until he rolled onto his back so she could straddle him. “I’ll throw my panties at you just like a real groupie.” His hands palmed her ass, rough calluses on her smooth skin. She bent down to kiss him and they didn’t talk for a long time after that._

*

She sleeps in his bed and cooks in his kitchen and curls up on his couch. There are three guitars in the spare room next to an old table that’s doubling as a desk. In the closet, there are shirts and slacks on wooden hangers and two zippered garment bags - one with his dress uniform and a set of clean fatigues and one with four costumes, each sleeker and less spangly as they got bigger. There’s also a hidden panel that slides back to reveal a spare bow and quiver, a wicked crossbow, a shotgun, and three handguns mounted to the wall, boxes of ammo lined up neatly underneath. Plus that trapdoor in the hall ceiling that she hasn’t been able to figure out how to open yet. 

The footage from New York plays on a loop for five days. She watches it over and over, rewinding every time she sees an arrow, a flash of black with a burgundy X across the chest. Her fingers itch and her chest aches. No one has called, but there was a box of groceries on the porch three days ago, including her favorite kind of Pop Tarts.

No news is good news, she tells herself. This is what the life of an army wife must be like, never knowing but relentlessly hoping. Darcy’s not sure if she’s built for this.

But she slips on a t-shirt from his dresser drawer to sleep in at night, staying on her side until there’s a reason to sprawl across the middle.

*

_”I have some time off,” he said to her over the phone. His voice was staticky and she wondered if he was calling from another continent. “Apparently the powers that be think I’ve earned some rest and relaxation.”_

_She laughed and rolled onto her stomach. “I hear the Caribbean is nice this time of year.”_

_“I was thinking I might come to Santa Fe. My last visit to New Mexico was for business, not pleasure. There’s a lot to see.” There’s a forced casualness to his voice that Darcy’s never heard before. But the idea of him in person after just being a voice on the phone is...appealing._

_“Is this your version of a booty call? Because you don’t need to pretty it up for me,” she teased._

_On the other end, Clint grunted. “No, it’s not a booty call. I’m asking...this is stupid, forget it.”_

_“No, wait, I’m sorry. Brain to mouth filter’s on the fritz again,” she said, sitting up. “If you have some time off and want to voluntarily spend it in New Mexico instead of Jamaica, you are more than welcome to do that. I might even be able to fit you into my busy schedule.”_

_Finally, he laughed. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”_

_“Not at all. And I’ll even change the sheets for you. It’s five star service at Chez Foster-Lewis.”_

_“Don’t put yourself out for me. I’ve slept worse places.”_

_Now it was Darcy’s turn to laugh, low and throaty. “I thought the whole point was for me to put out for you, baby,” she said._

_“Classy, Darce,” he replied. “I’ll e-mail you when I get back.”_

*

On day twelve, the phone in the kitchen rings while she making coffee. No one told her not to answer it and the number is blocked anyway.

“Hello?”

“Darcy, it’s Natasha.” 

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Hey. I guess I’m off the No Call list finally.” It doesn’t sound as flippant as she was aiming for. More like angry with a dash of sullen.

“There was...a situation. Clint needed to undergo some treatment before SHIELD could release him.” The way Natasha hesitates at the word _treatment_ sends a wave of dread over her.

“Is he...in one piece?”

“He is. They released him this morning. Thor has gone to get Dr. Foster but Clint is coming to you.” And Darcy swears Natasha is psychic because she says exactly what Darcy’s thinking. “Don’t tell me where you are - Clint’s safe house is private for a reason. Even from me.”

“Thanks. For calling. At least I know he’s not dead or whatever,” Darcy says.

“You’re welcome, Darcy. I’ll be seeing you soon.” There are two clicks and line goes dead.

The rest of the day she sits in the living room, curtains wide open, looking up at every noise. It’s almost sunset when a old red pickup truck pulls into the driveway. She’s frozen for a second, blinking to make sure it’s not a mirage. Then she’s on her feet, flying out the door.

Clint hasn’t even cut the engine before she throws the door open and hauls him out. He looks thin and wrung out. There’s a little pink scar near his temple and through his white t-shirt, she can see the ridges of medical tape on his ribs. "Ring of Fire" is pouring from the truck speakers and he hisses when she kisses him.

“I thought you were...” she starts, running her hands up his sides gently.

Clint nods stiffly. “Me too. Fuck, I’m glad to see you.” His arms wrap around her back and he breathes into her neck. The song ends and there’s nothing but silence and the thump of his heart beat under her hand.


End file.
